


(the poets are just) kids who didn't make it

by mildlydiscouraging



Series: (are we) growing up [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - YouTube, Bisexual Character, Developing Relationship, M/M, Slam Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlydiscouraging/pseuds/mildlydiscouraging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just kind of weird, seeing someone's face in your subscription box and then five minutes later in your Econ lecture. </p><p>(aka the au where pete's a slam poet on youtube and patrick just posts shitty covers and they're both secretly subscribed to each other and bond over caffeine and annoying friends.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it's not easy being a lowkey youtube groupie

**Author's Note:**

> the other day i was in the shower and i was thinking abt the bit at the end of 20 dollar nose bleed (i’m always thinking about that tho) and then i was watching a lot of spoken word poetry on youtube and then things just sort of...... spiraled downhill into this. oops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the following chapter contains copious amounts of: procrastination, awkward quasi-flirting, and swearing about socks.
> 
> kids: don't try this at home.

He's only got ten minutes until he needs to be in class, and yet there Patrick is, missing a sock and still with morning breath, just sitting on his bed and watching YouTube videos on his phone.

To be fair, they're not just _any_ videos. Well, to someone else they probably are, but he's not just mindlessly watching everything that pops up on his "Recommended for you" list. No, he's on a mission.

You see, going to a liberal arts school has its perks. For example, if you're playing your guitar at two in the morning, no one will really get mad at you because they've probably done the same thing or worse at some point in time (Patrick's roommate Andy is a drummer and boy does that get fun when you're trying to revise the night before midterms). Also, pretty much everyone has a YouTube channel. Like some schools had Quidditch leagues or award-winning a cappella groups, Columbia, Chicago had a strange obsession with putting stupid (or, depending on how you looked at it, amazing) videos on the internet to be immortalized forever.

Regardless of what you actually did, you probably had a video or two somewhere. Art majors and their speed paintings, music kids posting covers of every song under the sun, and the sheer amount of video podcasts about book reviews in the English department was unreal.

Even Patrick had one, although he barely ever posted anything. It had been one of the first things Andy had made him do freshman year when they ended up shoved into a dorm together, and every so often he'd still annoy him into record another video or posting one of the many unpublished things he had buried deep in a folder somewhere on his computer.

It wasn't like either of them had a lot of subscribers (in a world where that equated to how popular you were), they had just enough to not be considered as bad as the kids who didn't have any at all (gasp) but nowhere near enough for the popular kids to "care" about them.

Every clique had their big wigs, who had hundreds of followers for whatever reason, but Patrick's favorites always came from the slam poetry kids, regardless of how small they were comparatively.

They were pretty underground, but not in a pretentious way, just that no one cared enough either way to pay them any attention. Apparently they met up fairly frequently, seeing as their group channel updated almost daily, but he always found out about them after the fact since they were never advertised or even talked about. They were like an accidental secret society, but without robes or skull goblets or secret initiations (probably).

Of course, even if he had known about them beforehand, Patrick would probably never go to one. This was partially because he would stick out tremendously, but also partially because there was always one or two poems that made him cry inexplicably (don't ask, he still didn't know why). Of course, that didn't stop him from watching the videos thirty times every morning after Andy left for work.

He had just gotten through one called "Siri: A Coping Mechanism", and there were the tears again, when his phone buzzed with a new notification from, shocker, YouTube. Ignoring the many bubbles for his various missed alarms ("go to class", "seriously go the fuck to class", "patrick u cant afford to fail", "patrick fucking stump get ur ass to econ i s2g"), he saw it was from the one and only Pete Wentz, aka _ahomeboyslife_. And it’s only because he doesn’t want to get out of bed that he watches it.

So, here's the thing about Pete: it may have been that Patrick had been obsessively watching his videos since they were both freshman. In fact, it may even be that the entire reason Patrick had ever gotten into this spoken word stuff was because he had seen Pete the first day of school and Andy, after teasing him about it for a good hour, had helped him look up his channel.

At first, he'd been a bit weirded out how intense all the videos had been, how into it Pete and all these other people were, but then he found Pete's blog and actually read the words he'd been saying and the whole thing just made sense. There was something so compelling, so absorbing, about the way the words twisted and turned and stabbed you in the heart.

What definitely _wasn't_ amazing was the fact that the shitty dorm wi-fi was taking ages to load one three minute long video. When it eventually decides to load enough to play without buffering every two seconds, he pulls on his headphones and the world outside goes silent as it starts. He doesn't move at all, doesn't listen casually as he finishes getting dressed or drum his fingers on the table like he usually does after sitting still for more than thirty seconds. The only movement in the room is the shadows on the floor as the branches outside whip around in the wind and the tears swelling up in his eyes until the surface tension almost sets them free. Like he said, still no idea why.

"Untie the balloons around my neck and ground me". Just- Damn.

The video ends and he finally blinks, laughing slightly as the few tears drip onto his sweatshirt and just as he's about to be sucked back into the never ending spiral of suggested videos, there's a thud against the door.

It swings open as Andy groans and stumbles in, dragging his backpack and smelling of dry espresso beans and scorched milk. He rubs his eyes blearily and looks like he's about to just throw himself on the floor and sleep there when he notices Patrick sitting on his bed still.

"Dude," he says as Patrick looks up guiltily, "Why the hell are you still here? Are you crying?"

Well, he's not any more, that's for sure. Actually, now he’s finally _looking_ at his phone and seeing the time before he jumps up and starts running around in search of his other sock.

"You were watching that poetry stuff again weren't you?" Andy calls as Patrick runs past him to his closet, "You're totally gonna fail this class if you keep being late like this, I wouldn't be surprised if Stenson _actually_ eviscerates you this time."

"Well if you really cared about me so much, you'd help me find my _other fucking sock_." He's ducked to look under the bed and is just about to give up when Andy picks up the missing sock from the middle of the room and throws it at his head.

Patrick takes it, glaring at his roommate for a second as he shoves his other sneaker on. "You're a goddamn saint, you know that?" he says as he grabs his backpack and phone and heads for the door.

"Yeah, I know," Andy replies as he flops down on his bed and sighs deeply, "Say hello to your emo boyfriend for me, would you?"

He doesn't need to look up to hear Patrick rolling his eyes as he closes the door behind him.

///

It's probably the fastest Patrick's ever moved in his life (except that one time with the giant aerotrim at the science museum, but he doesn't like to talk about that) and he just barely manages to make it all the way to the social sciences building before the professor goes to close the door to start the class. Patrick gives her a sheepish look as he retracts his foot from where he's wedged it in the doorframe at the last second and slides into the room as the professor says, "You're very close, Mr. Stump. May I suggest not spending so much time sleeping through your morning alarms next time?"

Patrick blushes as he climbs all the way up to the very back row in the lecture hall, still embarrassed despite that fact that he hears basically the same speech every day. Only when he gets to the seat that is his in everything but name does he finally breathe. At least he hadn't shown up just a little bit later and had to climb up all the steps in silence as everyone else watched him.

While the rest of the class starts quieting down, he pulls open his backpack and starts digging around for his notebook, but all he can find in the little notepad he uses to write the tiny snippets of songs he can never quite get out of his head completely. He sighs, resigning himself to not actually learning anything today, and pulls out the crappy earbuds that came with his phone to discreetly slip one in his left ear as he opens YouTube again.

The lecture is already well on its way when there's a thud from the other side of the door, almost as if someone has been expecting it to be open and threw themselves against it, only to find out it was as locked as it always was. The faint sound of someone swearing and hitting their head on the wood can be heard as Professor Stenson sighs and steps down from her lectern to open the door.

The moment she does, a familiar body falls through, not expecting the door to open under their frustrated headbanging. Even though he knows he wouldn't be recognized, Patrick still looks away as Pete shuffles into the room, not embarrassed in the slightest.

"Thank you for finally joining us, Mr. Wentz. Why don't you find a seat and stop interrupting your peers' learning?"

Of course, being over fifteen minutes late to a general class, there are literally no empty seats other than the back row, especially not by all his not-actually-emo friends in the front of the room. So when he starts climbing up to the empty seats near Patrick, it's not a surprise, but it's definitely not something Patrick was prepared for in the slightest.

He’s also not prepared for when Pete ends up only one chair away, even though the entire row is empty, and Patrick has to convince himself it's because he doesn't want to sit all alone in the middle of the room, and definitely not because he wants to actually sit near Patrick.

Pete sits down and flashes him a smile before glancing curiously at his phone, which he's been barely holding on too since the door opened. It's still open to one of the poetry videos (thankfully not Pete's, dear god that would be horrific), and he must recognize the person because his polite smile turns into a real one as he flashes Patrick a thumbs up before turning to actually halfheartedly pay attention to the lesson.

By this point, Patrick can't focus on the videos, much less actually learning anything, so he ends up staring into space and trying to figure out why his heart is very close to racing. It's just kind of weird, seeing someone's face in your subscription box and then five minutes later in your Econ lecture. It's definitely not because he thinks he's _attractive_ or anything. It's just awkward, that's all.

Apparently the class only takes five seconds, because in the time it takes Patrick to blink, the professor is dismissing everyone and the room is that much louder as everyone starts talking to their friends and packing up their stuff.

He looks over to see Pete scribbling in a worn out notebook, completely oblivious to the rest of the room around him until he happens to look away from the paper and sees the flurry of movement in the front of the hall. Before he can awkwardly make eye contact, Patrick looks away and busies himself with untangling his headphones for the third time that hour.

"So you're into poetry then," Pete says it like a statement, and it confuses him for long enough that he forgets he was even being addressed in the first place.

"Wait, what?" he says as Pete starts climbing across the backs of chairs until he plops into the seat right next to him.

"Poetry," he says, pointing to Patrick's phone that turned off ages ago, "Or, at least, slam poetry. That's cool. You like that stuff?"

Patrick shakes his head slightly to clear it and says, "I- Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's really cool, even when it doesn't make all that much sense. Like, the rhythm and the words and... stuff...”

Pete nods wisely before his eyes get drawn to something down front. Patrick turns around half in his seat to see Pete's friends standing in front of the door and waving at him. When he turns around again, it's to see Pete waving back and grabbing the strap of his bag.

"Well, that's awesome," he says as he puts his hand on Patrick's shoulder before he launches himself over the next row and clambers his way back to the front.

If he notices the professor's glare or Patrick's bewildered look, he doesn't say anything as he leads his gang back outside. But not before ducking back in the room to wave goodbye to Patrick as he says, "See ya tomorrow, guy-whose-name-I-don't-know!"

Patrick waves back warily, still somewhat confused by the whole exchange. There's one thing he does know, though: he can't tell Andy. The teasing that would come would be beyond unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing is going to be so long....... i've written all of it already (and i'll probably tweak some things before posting) and it's already well over 16000 words. the document is 36 pages long. hel p . .


	2. how to act awkward in public without really trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [kicks down door] [backflips off table] [punches you in face] BISEXUAL PATRICK STUMP  
> ...  
> thank u for ur time.

Patrick would like to think he's forgotten about the entire exchange by the next day, but it's quite the opposite. He doesn't remember what he did the rest of the day. He probably went to the rest of his classes and his shift at the radio station must've been uneventful, because the next morning when he wakes up, his memory is all hazy. But not in a “man I got blackout drunk last night”, just like “everything before my phone buzzed and woke me up was weird and not important enough to remember”.

He rolls over to check how late he's going to end up being and is legitimately shocked to find that his first alarm hasn't even gone off yet. In fact, it's so early that Andy's still there, hanging half off his bed and dead to the world. Patrick’s always envied the way he can just fall asleep at the drop of a hat and stay that way until something loud wakes him up.

Of course, that peace doesn't last for long, as the alarm clock by his head blares and he flails for a second, caught up in his mountain of blankets, before he falls off the bed entirely with a painful thunk.

Patrick can't hold in his laughter and eventually has to sit up when his side starts to hurt, something the groaning pile of limbs on the floor takes notice of. Andy glares at him blearily as he starts to untangle himself, asking, "Why are you even awake right now? Are you conscious _just_ to laugh at my pain?"

That, of course, makes him laugh even more, to which Andy just rolls his eyes and starts wandering around looking for his shirt. "Seriously," he says as he pulls on one that's probably-clean-but-at-least-it's-black-so-you-can’t- _really_ -tell-if-it-isn't, "Why are you awake? No, wait, let me guess; you were up all night thinking about Mr. Dreamy and all the poems he'd write you and how he'd probably let you borrow his eyeliner."

For that he gets a pillow to the face as Patrick rolls over, deciding the wall is probably kinder than his best friend. It's blank and boring, but at least it's not going to tease him about someone he's definitely not even into.

Of course, ignoring him is never enough to shut Andy up.

"What happened to that Elisa girl anyway? Haven't seen her in a while," Andy continues, "You two were disgustingly cute, as much as I hate to admit it."

There's a lot of dismayed groaning and shuffling sounds from the opposite side of the room and he looks up from where he'd been tying his shoes to see that Patrick had rolled himself up completely in his blanket and was saying something too muffled to understand.

"Hey, burrito boy," Andy kicks the leg of the bed closest to him, "no one can understand you."

Patrick emerges from his cocoon of frustration enough to stick his head out and say, "She was 'more invested in the relationship' than I was." He pokes his hands out of the space to make air quotes before rolling over again.

"What about Dustin then?"

There's more groaning before Andy can eventually hear, " _I_ was over invested."

Andy shakes his head and sympathetically pats the lump where he thinks his back is.

"Don't worry, buddy," he says as he shrugs on his jacket, "At least you won't be late to your lecture today. Probably."

///

And he isn't. In fact, he's there so early that the class before isn't even finished yet and he ends up walking a lap around the building, intent on playing games on his phone so it looks like he actually has something to do. By the time he makes it back to the room there's a couple people hanging out by the door, but that's still all there is.

Regardless of how early he is, he still sits in the far back, where people can't judge him if he doesn't do anything but scribble down meaningless song lyrics and eventually tear up the paper by the end of class. Honestly, he doesn't even really need to be there, seeing as he never actually pays attention, but he still goes on the off chance that he'll feel like listening to someone drone on and on about the same boring topic for an hour or so.

There's a part of him that's half hoping that Pete will come sit in the back with him, and maybe they'll talk and he'll have the chance to make himself not look like a complete loser, but that doesn't happen.

When Pete does get there, barely even late, his friends have realized that they should maybe start saving him a spot, so he ends up sitting basically as far away from Patrick as possible. Patrick would feel hurt if he didn't know that it meant nothing, and decides to focus on his stupid doodles instead of the tight feeling in his chest. It’s enough to keep him spacing out for the majority of the class and he only tunes back into the outside world when the whole class starts talking right before they're dismissed.

"One moment please," breaks the casual chatter. Professor Stenson takes her glasses off as the group quiet and she continues, "Just one final reminder that your term paper is due tomorrow. It's worth more than half your grade, so I hope you've already finished it by now."

Well shit. Patrick stares blankly at the wall long after most of the class is gone, and he doesn't notice Pete waving at him as he leaves the room.

///

"You are completely and utterly fucked."

Andy is lying upside down on his bed, head dangling off the edge as he kicks his feet mindlessly against the wall.

"Yeah, you think I don't know that?"

Even as the blood rushes uncomfortably to his head, he can see the blur of Patrick's legs as he paces up and down their small room. He's been sporadically alternating between pacing and writing two sentences at a time on the shitty laptop his parents gave him when he moved out three years ago (he tells himself it's because the battery can't handle being used that constantly, but really he has no idea what to write).

"It would help if you actually ever knew what happened in that class."

The urge to kick him in the head is unusually strong, so Patrick settles for throwing himself angrily down on his bed. Of course, he lands directly on the sharp edge of his Econ book, and he regrets it immediately. He's too done with the world to care, though, and just stares morosely at the ceiling.

Andy sits up finally, flipping around so his feet hit the bottom of Patrick's bed as he continues to swing his legs back and forth. "Seriously though," he leans over and grabs one of the many papers strewn across his side of the room, "What are you even supposed to be writing about?"

Patrick sighs and pulls the book out from underneath himself. "It's supposed to be about 'the effect of expansionary demand side policies on balance of payments and environment'," he reads off. Just looking at the prompt gives him a headache and he starts hitting himself in the head with the book before Andy pulls it out of his hands.

"Alright," he says, "Here's what we're gonna do: you're gonna go to the library and study your ass off. I'm gonna get you out of your shift at the station, and then when I get back from class I'm gonna help you type it up, alright?"

Patrick had completely forgotten about work and is tempted to take the book back to hit himself again, but he's suddenly exhausted and just deflates and nods.

Andy throws the book back to him and says, "Now get to work, dumbass, you've got so much shit to get done." Patrick groans and rolls off the bed and onto to the floor, dragging down part of his comforter and most of his books come crashing down on him. Andy shakes his head, leaving Patrick swearing into the carpet and refusing to get back up.

///

The library is, surprisingly enough, pretty desolate at eleven on a Thursday night. Pretty much the only person left in the stacks is Patrick, who has been staring blankly at the same shelf for about half an hour, somewhere in class 339 with Flynn and Keynes and a bunch of other old dead white dudes.

There's a couple kids in one corner huddled over a silent game of Monopoly and someone by the bank of computers that is definitely _not_ Pete Wentz and is just his sleep deprived mind seeing things. But besides them and his own delusions, the library is eerily silent and empty.

Whether Pete actually is there or not is irrelevant, because by the time he collects all his crap from where it's exploded across his table and drags it over to the computer (to finish typing his paper, obviously), whoever it actually was is gone.

He sits down at the same computer, only because it's still on and convenient, and waits thirty million years for the browser to open because it runs as slow as his grandma's '82 Buick, probably even slower.

He's wiggling around the mouse to make sure it hasn't frozen (it hasn't, it's just that slow) when he notices something sticking out of the side of the monitor. It's a USB drive that must've been left by someone earlier, so he opens the folder to see if he can find out who it belongs to, not meaning to invade someone's personal space.

When it eventually opens, still before the browser can, he finds it's just a bunch of .txt documents with ridiculously long titles, which should've been his first clue.

Since even _Google_ hasn't loaded yet, he figures it can't hurt and clicks on one called "us vs. the house". And even though the words themselves aren't necessarily familiar, there was no chance on earth that he wouldn't recognize them and know exactly who wrote them. He can hear them in Pete's voice in his head and it's almost as soul wrenching as it would be if he was really hearing them. With a line like “being happy doesn’t mean you are unauthentic. breathing life is alright. in doses you know”, it couldn’t really be anyone else.

If it wasn't for the guillotine of a paper hanging over his head, he would've gladly spent all night reading them, but as is he has to tear himself away from the folder and get back to his current crisis.

He almost opens it up again, three hours later as he's waiting for the printer to spit out his paper as good as it's gonna get, but then he realizes it's a total invasion of privacy and crossing the one line he doesn't want to step over.

He's got all his stuff, paper straight from the printer warming his hands, and is headed for the door when he caves and turns back to snatch the USB drive out of the port and pockets it. He doesn't notice the person who comes in the opposite door and heads to the now abandoned computers, he's too busy thinking about the four hours of sleep he might still be able to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for all ur lovely comments everyone!! i'm so glad y'all seem to like it so far, i'm really excited to be posting this now since it's all finished.
> 
> ohhh next chapter's got some good stuff. get hyped, guys. i think i'll post it on saturday, less than a week, but after that i hope to post one chapter every saturday. god knows how long that'll last tho. fingers crossed!!


	3. bonding over caffeine and sleep deprivation is really the only way to bond ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but elizabeth, when does this take place? 2006? ? over the hiatus??? srar era? ? present day?? ? ? ? yes.

By some minor miracle Patrick gets to class on time the next morning, though he doesn't quite remember how. He thinks it might have something to do with Andy having an early shift and dragging him to the lecture hall before pushing him in the open door, a grande Americano in each hand and essay under his arm.

Patrick can practically hear Pete's friends raising their eyebrows when Pete falls into the seat next to him, even though the room is only half full and there's plenty of empty seats still.

"So, that essay was a bitch."

Patrick wakes up a little more.

All he gets is a blank look from Patrick as he continues, "I was in the library till midnight working on it, I am so tired right now." He seems to burrow into his hoodie as he leans back in his chair and props his feet up on the row in front of them, still talking about how terrible writing his paper was. Patrick looks back down at his desk to avoid making eye contact and remembers the other cup of coffee Andy had forced on him, still sitting untouched next to the one he'd pretty much been chugging.

"Do you want one?" he blurts out in the middle of Pete's sleep deprived rant. "I- I mean," he stutters ever so slightly, "Not the one I already drank half of, but..."

"Dude, seriously?" Pete thankfully jumps in before he can dig himself an even deeper hole, “Awesome, thanks man." He takes it and tries to down a lot of it in one swig before wincing and sticking his tongue out.

"Yeah, it's pretty hot still," Patrick says, "Watch out."

In response, Pete makes the most undignified snorting sound in the history of the universe and Patrick can't help but let out a little laugh as he just rolls his eyes and takes another, _smaller_ , sip.

"Why'd you even have two in the first place?" Pete says once he's sure he's not going to burn his tongue again, "I mean, not that I'm complaining, free coffee, but how late were you up last night?"

"My roommate Andy works at the Starbucks down the street, so sometimes when he's tired of me being late to everything he just brings me back stuff," Patrick says, looking down at his desk again, "Apparently I looked enough like a zombie this morning to warrant two."

"Oh yeah, kinda short, red hair, ton of tattoos?" Pete replies, "I know him, we went to high school together. Cool guy."

Patrick nods and wonders why Andy's never mentioned knowing Pete, but is interrupted by the door slamming shut and the entire room quieting their casual conversations.

As the professor starts going over the schedule for the day, Pete leans over and whispers, "I don't think _twelve_ of these would enough to keep me awake through this whole class."

Patrick tries his best to ignore how he could still feel Pete's warm breath on his check and how he had smelled like coffee and printer ink as he passes his essay down to the front and wills himself to pay attention to the chicken scratch on the board.

Of course, that's near impossible as Pete keeps sliding scraps of paper onto his desk, little notes with sarcastic commentary on the lecture, or Stenson's hideous scarf choice, or the stoner kids playing paper football in the other corner.

Every time he unfolds the next one, Patrick almost loses it and Stenson glares at them suspiciously from her podium. He can see Pete beaming out of the corner of his eye, thought, which is quite possibly even more distracting.

Patrick somehow makes it through the rest of the class, although Pete doesn't make it any easier, and it's only when Pete is getting up to go down to his actual friends that he finally remembers.

"Shit, wait, Pete!" he says when he goes to put his notes away and sees it. Pete turns around, standing on the backs of chairs in two different rows, and his eyes light up when he sees what Patrick is holding.

"Hey, my flashdrive!" he says as he climbs back up to meet him halfway, "Dude, I thought I'd lost that forever, where'd you find it?"

Patrick tries not to notice how the tips of their fingers brush when he takes it back, instead saying, "Uh, library, last night. You must've used the same computer as me and left it there."

"How'd you know it was mine?" he says as he shoves it in the pocket of his jacket.

"Lucky guess," Patrick gets out after a few tense milliseconds of him racking his brain for an excuse, "I thought I saw you leaving as I got in and hoped it was yours. That'd be really awkward if I just took a random person's stuff, I mean-"

Pete seems to accept whatever bullshit Patrick is able to spew and cuts off his rambling by patting him on the shoulder and saying, "No worries, Trick, I get it. And hey, say hi next time, alright? So we can bitch about our procrastinating together."

It's becoming a disturbing trend, Pete saying something and walking out with his friends, leaving Patrick confused and alone in the Econ hall. Wait...

"Trick?"

///

After the rest of his classes (which thankfully aren't the other ones he shares with Pete), Patrick eventually trudges through the thickly falling snow and gets back to the dorms, only to find Andy in the doorway doing... something.

"What are you doing?"

Andy swings up and grabs the pole he's hanging from.

"Exercising," he explains, "You should try it sometime."

"Okay then," Patrick shakes his head and pushes him aside like a ridiculously heavy curtain, "Hey, don't you have class this afternoon?"

Andy nods, which looks really weird upside down, and goes back to his reverse curl ups or whatever he's doing.

"Why?" he asks, "Gonna invite over a lady friend?" He must be able to see Patrick's eye roll because he continues, "Gentlemen friend? Oh man, is it Pete?"

"Shut up," Patrick says, "I was gonna record something and I didn't want you dicking around in the background."

"You? Recording something without me having to annoy you into it? Who are you and what have you done with the Patrick we all know and love?"

Patrick only sighs and pulls out his guitar as he kicks his bag under his bed. "Just, hurry up with whatever it is you're doing, you're letting in a draft."

Apparently, rolling your eyes upside down looks weird as hell too, and Patrick has to look away until Andy concedes and swings down from the door.

"Alright, I'll leave you to your sappy love songs," he says, grabbing the towel on the end of his bed and shutting the door behind him.

 _It wasn't gonna be a love song,_ Patrick frowns as he starts tuning _, Okay, well it wasn't gonna be_ sappy _. Probably._

///

About an hour later, while he's waiting for the file to finish rendering, he's checking his email and sees he's gotten something from YouTube telling him there's a new comment on his most recent video, from about a month ago. It's from _nohartandsole_ , who's been following him almost since he's made his channel, but who had never really interacted with him before. He doesn’t even know who they really are, outside of someone who likes one of his videos every once in a while.

Intrigued, he waits until the video finishes saving before his computer decides to let him open another tab and he sees it under the video of him singing Toxic, which he has to cover with one hand so he doesn't embarrass himself into oblivion as he scrolls down.

It doesn’t take him long to get to it, seeing as Andy is pretty much the only other person who comment on his videos (and Patrick is 120% sure it’s because he feels obligated to after always being the one to push him to post anything in the first place).

It’s not novel length or anything, but it’s pretty long and definitely not just a troll or something, since it seems to be almost like a poem or, at the very least, not full of spelling mistakes and exclamation points interspersed with ones.

It’s kind of flowery in a way, and looks like it’s about him, although he’s not sure if he’s reading too much into it (if he’s being honest, he already knows what it is at this point, he’s just deluding himself). Whatever it is, it’s really cool. There’s one line that compares him to Elvis Costello, and if there was one way to win him over, that would be it.

Patrick is still rereading it over and over when another notification pops up. And then another. And another.

Apparently _nohartandsole_ was making their way back through all his videos and commenting on every single one, each something weird and strangely encouraging.

He follows the trail all the back to his first video, horrendously low quality and barely rehearsed. It says “i held your gaze for more than a second. i think thats good enough for me. ripples through my heart, smokescreen through my head. nothing will change but you, not even the way i remembered it”.

Some of the comments are like this, a bizarre blend of poetry and prose and he thinks he saw some song lyrics in there as well, while others are more casual. One of them, on his second most recent video from a couple months ago, just says “i like this one”.

Regardless of how they say it, they’re all flattering in a weird sort of way, and he’s been taking screenshots of them all and burying them in a folder somewhere deep in his computer. He’s looking through them all when one last little bubble pops up, on his video that finished uploading a couple minutes ago without him noticing.

“this one’s my favorite."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i completely and utterly blame pete wentz for influencing my writing style too much as a child and now i only write long-winded paragraphs. NO thanks pete.
> 
>  
> 
> (we all already know who nohartandsole is, but bonus points if you get the reference.)


	4. an excuse to talk about pop punk or an excuse to talk to you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> take a shot every time i end a scene with someone saying something and then promptly leaving.
> 
> (elizabeth juhbluh does not condone the consumption of alcohol in large doses. i apologize.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was in boston this weekend unexpectedly and i forgot to post!! pls forgive me friends.

Patrick falls asleep not long after, desperately trying to catch up on all the rest he’d missed the night before. He doesn’t wake up for another three hours, when his alarm for work goes off right next to his ear.

Slightly groggy, he manages to actually get up fairly quickly and sees that there’s also a few new notifications from both YouTube and Tumblr. Apparently Pete hadn’t been exhausted by the essay as well, since he seems to have been busy while Patrick was sleeping.

What little snow there was on the sidewalk outside has been packed down by all the people walking back and forth and Patrick almost slips the second he gets out the door. He heads across the frozen grass towards the radio station, where he’s been working since he was a freshman.

He’d applied partially because his dad had needled him into “continuing the Stump legacy, Patrick”, and partially because it actually looked kind of cool. His dad had always talked about working there when Patrick was a kid and, as much as it didn’t look at all like he imagined, it was still a really cool place.

Now an upperclassman, he’d climbed his way out of the slums of only stacking records and fetching lunches, he actually gets to do the cool stuff like, you know, actually go in the booth. The "radio voice" still eludes him, though, so he just queues up the music and let's Joe do the talking. It works best for them all that way; Joe gets to ramble to his “audience” and Patrick gets to share his favorite music with them.

Win-win, really.

Joe, currently waving at him through the soundproof glass with what looks like an entire sandwich in his mouth, is probably one of his best friends ever. They'd both been stuck as baby interns together when Joe broke the shelf behind the counter after hours and shattered a bunch of 90's punk records and they've been best friends ever since. He’s not the best at making friends, but Joe’s out there enough that it was kind of hard not to be pulled in by him. They’re both just weird enough that they fit best together.

Patrick rolls his eyes as Joe's hand gets caught on a cord and unplugs his headphones, flinging them across the booth and into a stack of CDs. He watched Joe flail around silently as he throws his own bag behind the register and flicks the switch that turns on the speakers outside the booth.

The song fades out and there's about three seconds of dead air before a loud click breaks the static and Joe's voice comes out, just the tiniest bit out of sync with what Patrick can see through the glass.

"Sorry about that guys," he says, "Had a little technical difficulty there. But hey, guess what? Everyone's favorite co-host is here! Patrick, get your ass in here and say hello to your loving audience."

Patrick shakes his head and ignores him as he continues going around and setting up stuff to open.

"Aw, he said no guys. Don't worry, I'm sure he still loves you. And to show you how much he loves you, he's got this next song all really for you."

Of course, Joe presses the wrong button and Avril Lavigne comes blaring out until he catches it and shuts it off.

"Er, not that," he says as he watches Patrick try to hold in his silent laughter, "Oh, screw you Patrick."

He presses the right button this time and the [right song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JCLY0Rlx6Q) comes on. Patrick busies himself with collecting all of Joe's stuff that's somehow spread across the entire store part of the building as Joe pressed a few more buttons and hops out of the booth.

"Dude," he leans across the counter to grin maniacally at Patrick as he gets his own stuff, "I wasn't sure you were gonna make it in today; I thought I'd have to turn you in to Hayley. There's only so long I can cover for you before she just shows up one day and you're not here."

"It was just that one class that was the problem," Patrick replies, walking down the aisles and straightening out the records as Joe follows him like an eager puppy, "Now that that paper's out of the way I'll be fine until finals, and I've got time off for that already."

Joe checks his watch briefly before clapping him on the shoulder and saying, "Well, just try not to fall asleep or she'll have your ass," and running back to the booth just and slipping on his headphones just in time for the song to end.

Patrick shakes his head and follows him, albeit a lot slower, and sets up his music while Joe continues to ramble into the mic. He keeps tugging on Patrick's sleeve every time he passes until Patrick concedes and pulls on the other pair of headphones to hear Joe saying, "...and now that Patrick is finally sinking low enough to grace us with his presence, say hello Patrick!"

He leans in and says a quick hello, but is pulled back down when he tries to stand back up.

"Now Patrick," Joe says, "care to explain to our wonderful audience why you were gone for so long?"

"Oh..." he says, readjusting the headphones where they'd starting slipping off his head, "You know, homework and all that... stuff."

Joe hums and leans forward theatrically before asking, "Does this have anything to do with the rumors that Stenson is actually an Econ-crazed tyrant sent directly from hell to punish the poor students of Columbia?"

"Are you allowed to say that on campus radio?"

"It's not like anyone actually listens to us," Joe's phone buzzes halfway through his sentence and he reads the new text, "Oh, Hayley said we're not allowed to talk shit about administrators, never mind."

"Well, I'm gonna got before you say something else that'll get us both expelled," Patrick says and he escapes from the tangle of wires while Joe continues blabbering.

Back out of the soundproof room, he sets up his textbook and notes behind the register and settles in for an uneventful Friday night spent listening to the radio interspersed with Joe's ramblings.

It's a slow day, as most everyone is out either partying or studying, so he hardly has anything to do other than direct a couple of hipster kids to the Arctic Monkeys stuff in the corner. Joe emerges from his cave every once in a while to alternately bug him and steal his breakfast, but the store doesn't get a lot of customers as the day drags on.

"Oh hey, Andy left you a muffin this morning, by the way," Joe says the next time he comes out to get his lunch, "It's on the table in the break room."

Patrick actually looks up this time, abandoning his homework and making a beeline for the back of the store where he finds the most beautiful muffin he's ever seen, made even more so by the fact that Joe stole his bagel so he hasn't had anything to eat all day.

He pretty much shoves the entire thing in his mouth and goes back to thank Joe for not eating it too, only to find that Joe isn't alone anymore. And of course, knowing Patrick's lucky streak he's been on recently, out of all the people it could've been, it just had to be Pete.

"Mfm hefh Pefhm," he stops in the doorway and mumbles around the crumbs threatening to explode from his mouth. He tries to swallow the delicious muffin, as much as he would like to savor it, as Pete raises an eyebrow and waves one hand. He gets the rest of the muffin down with only a little difficulty and repeats, "Hey Pete."

During this entire exchange (or lack thereof), Joe has had this sly, knowing look on his face, and when Patrick reaches them at the counter, he sees it as his way out and says, "Well, gotta get back to the booth. Radio doesn't do itself, you know?" before slipping in between the two and ever so slightly jogging to the booth. He ducks Patrick's glare and escapes, phone already in hand to text Andy.

Patrick's never that good with one on one conversations, and being left alone with Pete is pretty much his worst nightmare at this point because he knows he's going to end up saying something incredibly embarrassing or awkward and ruin whatever weird, tentative friendship they have. Needless to say, Joe can probably still feel the heat of Patrick's stare on his back as he safely ensconces himself in the booth.

"So," Patrick's eyes shoot back to Pete as he says, "recovering from that essay then?"

"Yeah, I just sort of went home and slept until I had to show up here a couple hours ago."

Pete nods, a half smile on his face that grows when he realizes that there's still some muffin on Patrick's face. "You've got a little..." He gestures to his own mouth until Patrick gets the message and rubs at his face a little frantically.

The crumbs stick to his hand a little and he awkwardly wipes it off on his jeans as he says, "Sorry, it was a really good muffin."

At that, Pete laughs, and Patrick realizes he sounds kind of like a donkey, but at least in an endearing way.

"I can tell," he replied, leaning forward on his toes a little as Patrick sits back on his stool, "I don't think I've ever tried to deepthroat a rum butter muffin before, though."

"You've never lived then," Patrick replies. He's not really sure where that came from, but it makes Pete laughs again, so that's a plus. He smiles too, and looks down at where his fingers are unconsciously drumming on the countertop. Right in front of him is the CD he supposes Pete was going to buy and starts ringing it up.

"The Get Up Kids?" he says, turning over the case in his hands as the ancient register starts to crank out the receipt.

"Yeah," Pete replies, "You like them?"

Patrick hands him the CD and receipt, saying, " _Guilt Show_ is a pretty good album, but I have to say, _There Are Rules_ is my favorite."

Pete makes an exaggerated scoffing sound, but is still smiling as he says, "Sellout."

Patrick shrugs in a _what-can-you-do?_   way as Pete walks backwards towards the door.

"You're too mainstream indie for me, Stump, I don't know if we can ever be friends now."

He walks out the door before Patrick can say anything, and Patrick has resigned himself to never being able to have a normal end to a conversation with him until Pete pops his head back in to say, "I'm kidding, we can totally be friends. BFF's forever. Til death do us part. I'll see you later, Trick."

And then he disappears again. Dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclamer: any and all things about college radio are based solely on one part pitch perfect and two parts stories from my parents (who met via campus radio, awwwww, cute.)
> 
> disclaimer v2.0: the opinions expressed by the characters in this story do not necessarily reflect those of the author. for example, i think 'something to write home about' is the get up kids's best album.


	5. joe trohman is secretly a massive taylor swift fan, pass it on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this !! is !! so !! cliche !! i'm sorry !!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i didn't post this yesterday, i was busy seeing and getting front row for and meeting my absolute favorite band, magic man. honestly it was the best night of my life and i've never felt happier and i just feel so !!!! but that may be also bc i was out there for 16+ hours and only slept for four when i got home. anyway! chapter time!

Seeing Pete later, predictably enough, doesn't happen, as Patrick has the worst flu anyone's ever had ever and misses like a week of classes, instead sitting in his room and the station with a box of tissues, feeling sorry for himself.

It isn't until a couple weeks later, right before the end of the quarter, that he _actually_ talks to Pete again, and it's not his finest hour if he's being honest.

He's stuck in the library as tons of snow is dumped onto the campus, standing in the vestibule and contemplating how long it would take for him to freeze all the way through. The front door of the library is right in between two really tall dorms, so there’s sort of a wind tunnel right outside and Patrick morosely watches the snow drifts blow around and around, trying to convince himself that maybe if he stays long enough, Andy will notice he's gone and come to his rescue with an actual coat, because Patrick is an idiot and only wore a sweatshirt. Of course, it’s most likely that he's already asleep, so Patrick's all on his lonesome. He's just gotten over getting sick and now he's going to catch pneumonia instead, great.

The seal around the window is broken right by where his hands are leaning and the inch of air whistling in is freezing until his fingertips feel like they're about to fall off, but he completely forgets about it as the door behind him opens and someone appears over his shoulder.

"Holy shit that's a lot of snow."

Patrick most certainly does _not_ jump, thank you very much, although he is a little startled to see Pete suddenly standing right next to him.

"Jesus, Pete," he breathes out halfway through Pete's sentence. As pretty as he looks in the light of the prematurely-decorated trees, Patrick had been pretty sure no one else was still in the library when he left ten minutes ago.

"Not Jesus, but thanks," he replies with that stupidly smug smile of his that makes Patrick want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. It's mostly the first one though.

"Ha ha, very funny," he says in his most deadpan voice as he turns back to the window and the snow outside.

He can practically hear the smile still on Pete's face as he rocks back and forth on his toes and says, "I try. Wait, are you seriously only wearing a sweatshirt? Dude, you're totally gonna freeze to death out there."

"Why do you think I'm still here?" Patrick says and kicks the door softly, "It wasn't snowing when I got here, and it definitely wasn't this dark out. Or cold. Or windy."

He's still petulantly kicking the bottom of the metal door, relishing in the dull thud that echoes the tortured emptiness in his soul, when Pete slides his backpack off his shoulder and drops it on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Patrick says, even though he can clearly see that Pete is shrugging off his jacket.

"You're all the way over in Blick Hall, right?" he says as he empties out a bunch of random stuff from his pockets, "That's on the other side of the quad, you'd freeze before you got halfway. Here, take it."

Patrick automatically grabs onto the leather as Pete hands it over to him, even though his brain hasn't quite caught up with what's happening yet.

"Wait, what? Are you kidding? What about you then?" he says as he flails a little to keep hold on the jacket.

"I'm not nearly as far," Pete replies, pushing the jacket back into Patrick's hands, "Dude, just take the fucking jacket. I don't wanna have to deal with the guilt when they dig up your frozen corpse in May."

Patrick concedes, knowing that Pete's not gonna back down at this point, and takes off his backpack and pulls on the jacket over his sweatshirt as Pete continues, "Besides, you're not gonna keep it forever, alright? That's my favorite jacket, so don't throw it in the lake or anything."

Before Patrick can get out any kind of thank you or reply at all, Pete is pushing open the door and disappearing into the piercing cold wind. He watches him go until the falling snow gets too thick, at which point he psyches himself up and plunges into the cold as well.

He doesn't really notice how the tiny icicles in the air sting his face, more distracted by the fact that Pete's jacket is still warm and kinda smells like him when he sticks his nose in the collar (to keep warm, honest). It's a total coincidence that he's too tired and freezing to take it off when he gets back to his room. He falls asleep to the sound of muffled snow piling up outside the window, shoes and jacket still on as he huddled under his comforter.

///

When he wakes up, the snow has stopped actually falling, but the cliché fluffy piles of white outside make it one of those mornings where all you want to do is stare blankly out the window and wrap yourself up in every blanket you own. Unfortunately, class waits for no man, and Patrick has to force himself out of his cave of warmth and onto the cold carpeted floor.

Regardless of the fact that it isn’t snowing anymore, Patrick wears the jacket anyway, because, you know, it’s cold, and he’ll probably be able to return it during Econ, which is of course what he’s been meaning to do all along. But then Pete isn’t in class, so he keeps wearing it in case he sees him walking around somewhere.

Of course, most people aren’t wandering around outside because it’s cold as hell, so he doesn’t happen to run into him there either and ends up still wearing the jacket by the time lunch rolls around and he goes to the coffee shop. Andy notices, but thankfully doesn’t say anything other than casually mentioning that Pete hadn’t come in for his usual coffee that morning.

Joe, however, is absolutely merciless in his teasing and keeps giving him this look that says “I totally know what’s going on here”, regardless of how many times Patrick shoots down his theories as to why he has Pete’s fucking jacket of all things. He doesn’t listen though, and keeps playing ridiculously overt songs about sex or whatever, which wasn’t really that out of the ordinary except for the way Joe makes a face at him every time another one starts.

But since everyone in Patrick’s life has terrible timing, it just so happens that Pete walks into the station as Joe is saying, “Would the owner of Pete Wentz’s jacket please come collect it from your boyfriend, and while you’re at it, just take him too.” The bell above the door jingles and Patrick and Joe both look up, one half smiling and the other still glaring.

“Oh, never mind,” Joe finishes, “guess who just walked in?”

Patrick tunes out Joe’s narration, actually switching off the speakers when Joe notices and starts talking louder, and focuses on Pete, who is kicking the snow off his shoes at the door.

“Hey,” he says offhand as he goes to the stack of discount CDs that Patrick had spent the last hour sorting in every conceivable way, the last being by color. Pete must notice this as he huffs out a laugh and trails his fingers down the rack, looking for something Patrick can only guess at.

Apparently he hadn’t pressed the button hard enough and Joe’s voice comes back and says, “And here’s a little song for all the lovers out there.” Patrick glares through the window as Joe grins evilly once more and starts playing the latest Taylor Swift single.

There’s a couple seconds where Patrick is wavering in this half awkward go-say-hi-don’t-just-stand-there phase while Pete wanders around the back, but then two girls walk in the door and immediately commandeer his attention. He gets distracted as they drag him around to look for an indie release that he’s already told them three different ways that they don’t carry. By the time they eventually grumble their way out, Pete is leaning against the counter waiting for him as Patrick sighs and collapses onto his stool behind it.

After that nightmare, ringing up Pete’s one CD is nothing, and Patrick does so as Pete says casually, “Rough day then?”

“The actual worst,” Patrick replies and waits for the ancient printer to cough out the receipt. Pete nods in response and takes the disc before turning for the door.

“Oh hey,” Patrick says when he notices, Pete already a good couple feet away, “Wait, your jacket.”

He’s, embarrassingly enough, still wearing it, and starts to take it off when Pete interjects, “Did you bring your own coat? Because it’s snowing again, and it’s still really cold outside.” He takes Patrick’s sheepish silence as a no and smiles as he shakes his head. “Keep it a little while longer,” he waves over his shoulder and pushes open the door, “Besides, it looks good on you.”

Even sound-proof glass can’t muffle Joe’s laughter as Patrick’s face goes bright red (and he doesn’t think he can blame it on the cold this time).

///

"So you aren't going home over break then?"

Patrick shakes his head as Joe closes the door behind them. There's a couple hours between when their shifts end and the night crew starts, so they're left to lock up just as the sun starts goes down.

"Nah," Patrick shoves his hands deeper in his pockets and follows Joe down the darkening sidewalk, "I've still got a ton of shit left to catch up on before finals."

"But it's Thanksgiving, Patrick!" Joe almost punches a lamp post as he throws his hands up dramatically, "Long weekend! More food than you really should eat! Not having to shower in the dorms!"

"Okay, first, you only ever take showers in the middle of the night when no one else is awake, so what's your problem with them?" Patrick ignores Joe's protests, holding up one hand as he continues, "Second, I go home to do laundry, like, every other weekend. It's not like I never see them or anything."

Joe sighs and shakes his head, hair hitting Patrick in the face like he knows annoys him.

"You just don't get the spirit of Thanksgiving, do you?" he asks, "It's not about family or showers, its about _not having to go to class_. You have to enjoy the non-secular holidays as much as you can, man, even if it involves shitty distant relatives."

At this point, they've reached Patrick's building, and Joe watches as he shakes his head and hops up the front steps, saying, "It's because I missed all that class before, remember? Besides, there's gonna be almost no one still here, it'll be awesome. Eat a lot of turkey for me while you're gone, alright?"

He tries not to think about how lonely it’ll feel with his best friends away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this before style was released as a single and now its even better than i thought it'd be.  
> also, i forgot to mention on the last chapter, but rum butter muffins are seriously amazing and i definitely suggest you go find some and eat twelve right now. ur welcome.


	6. just as sweet as you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i firmly believe that patrick stump excessively watches x-files. an idea that may be partially founded in the music video for allsc, but a grand idea nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on this week's edition of "elizabeth's excuses for posting a day late": I SAW WALK THE MOON AND IT WAS BEAUTIFUL AND I'M SO POSITIVE ABOUT EVERYTHING AND LIFE IS ACTUALLY LOOKING UP FOR ONCE WOW

There are very few things better than having the entire room and almost building to yourself, or at least, to Patrick there aren’t. Sure, it’s not that great when you wake up in the middle of the night and everything is disturbingly quiet, but not having to wait for the bathroom or fight anyone for the cereal is a pretty great feeling.

The first thing Patrick does after Andy rolls his suitcase out in the morning is lean over and steal all the blankets off his abandoned bed. Now under his very own mountain, Patrick pulls out his laptop and gets to work swimming his way through the first season of The X-Files.

However, even if it starts out with that blissful feeling reminiscent of being left home alone as a kid, three straight days of solitude can wear you down.

It’s all find when Andy drags his suitcase out Sunday morning, before the novelty of being alone wears off. It isn't until Tuesday afternoon, halfway through one of Mulder’s diatribes on Big Foot, that Patrick realises he hasn't seen another person's face in over forty eight hours, when he accidentally got sucked into a five minute conversation with someone out getting the mail.

He's been doing the radio by himself, living off the boxes of cereal under his bed, recording enough that he's probably uploaded more in the last week than the entire year before, as being the only one left on his floor (and possibly the building, too) makes it a lot quieter. He's so self-sufficient that, were the zombie apocalypse to happen, he'd be pretty well off.

Even then, the all-around silence is disconcerting once he becomes aware of it, so he wills himself to go out and _do_ something.

He heads out to Starbucks the next day, choosing to sit there on his laptop all day instead of doing the same in his room. Despite Andy not being there, he's friendly enough with the rest of the staff that he feels alright sitting there for hours on end and only occasionally ordering something so they aren't obliged to throw him out. He’s even kind of friends with one of the baristas, Gerard, because they had run into each other at the comic book store down the street once. He knows enough to put names to faces and could probably get away with some small talk if he has to go without Andy.

Or at least, he _thought_ he knew everyone who worked there. Because when he walks in and his glasses eventually defog, it’s only for him to see a discerningly familiar smile above a green apron.

"Patrick!"

He wipes off his glasses again to check. Yup, that's Pete Wentz, hair trapped under a newsboy cap and coffee stains on the sleeves of his hoodie-of-the-day.

"I know," Pete answers his unasked question, "kinda corporate for me, but a man's gotta make a living, you know? Plus, Ryan got me in here without references, so I probably shouldn't complain."

Patrick nods and drifts towards the counter.

"Gotta pay the bills," he concludes, "So anyways, what'll you have?"

Before Patrick can answer, however, Pete does so for him.

"Wait, no, I've got it: grande gingerbread latte with extra whipped cream. Trust me, you love it. And if you don't have diabetes by the time you finish it, it's on the house."

Patrick's not sure if he does trust him or not, but it saves him having to talk (and by that he means flail around with enough words to get his point across), so he figures he might as well. Finding a seat in the nearly empty shop isn't hard and he busies himself with his phone until Pete practically skips over with his drink.

He stands in front of Patrick eagerly as he takes the first sip, asking, "So what do you think?"

"It's great," Patrick replies.

No it isn't. It's terrible.

It tastes burnt, with only a slightly sweet aftertaste to make it a little worthwhile, and at least half of it is actually just whipped cream.

But Pete looks too adorably hopeful to tell so, so Patrick swallows his objections (and his coffee) as Pete grins even wider and nods as he heads back behind the counter.

As soon as he’s gone, Patrick pulls out his phone to text Andy.

> _Dude, u never told me pete worked w u?_
> 
> **Never came up. Why?**
> 
> _How does he even still have a job, this coffee sucks + i think ive been poisoned_
> 
> **Omg, you're there? It's a date, isn't it? You're on a date with Pete Wentz, amazing**
> 
> _Wtf no shut up_
> 
> **Mhmm, okay. He is pretty awful, but no one really has the heart to tell him, he's just so earnest about everything.**
> 
> **Plus, we're a little short staffed atm, so we need him.**
> 
> _He just looked so excited, i couldnt say no_
> 
> **Riiight**
> 
> _Dammit andy_
> 
> **Tell lover boy I said hi. And that if he fucks up the steamer again, I'll have his ass.**

Ignoring the first part with a roll of his eyes, Patrick gets up to throw away his cup and relay the rest of the message to Pete.

"Shit," he says before Patrick even gets to the threat part and ducks down to be eye-level with the counter.

"Dammit." He stands back up, holding a pitcher of what looks like scorched milk.

"They're never gonna let me do a shift alone again," he mourns as he dumps into the sink what he can scrape out. The expression on his face is a cross between disappointed and accepting and Patrick tries to hold in his laughter, though not well enough, as one giggle gets out.

"Sorry," he says, but Pete is laughing a little too, so he feels kind of better as he doubles back to grab his bag and leave.

"Wait," Pete stops him before he can pull on his jacket.

His jacket, which is actually still Pete's jacket. Oops.

Figuring he wants it back finally, Patrick starts pulling it back off when Pete hops over the counter (badly, as one shoelace almost catches on another coffee pot) and stops him again, this time with a hand on his chest.

"Keep it," he says, straightening out the lapel and not looking Patrick in the eye, "I meant it when I said it looks good on you. Better than on me."

He finally looks up shyly, and it’s such an odd expression for his face that Patrick can't do anything but nod. Pete smiles a little and steps back, handing him his bag and going back to his job.

"Just, check the pockets this time, okay?" Pete calls after him with a real smile this time, "I'm getting tired of waiting for you to figure it out."

When the door swings shut behind him and Patrick goes to stick his hands in the pockets to keep them warm, he pulls out a receipt with a phone number scribbled on the back. And the burnt taste of gingerbread still on his tongue seems just a little bit sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have yet to reach the part where i wrote like four chapters in one sitting bc i was watching the fault in our stars finally. so, at least it's not TOO disgustingly sappy. but that chapter title is tho.


	7. ... but bonding over star wars works too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> free popcorn andy!! u just dont understand!! !! 11!!! ! 1!!!1!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have to tell you guys something. i put off publishing this chapter because i don't want this to end. the closer we get to the end, the less i want to post, but i'm doing this for you guys so i'm gonna post anyways

He isn't sure how it happens, but Patrick ends up spending pretty much the rest of break with Pete in some form or another.

It starts out with Pete hovering over his shoulder as he does his Psych 102 homework, offering suggestions that are more often than not right. Pete goes on lunch break and asks for help with their shared Econ woes. They go to the library together to look up something when they can’t agree how a quote from a random book is phrased exactly. They start talking about music, they go to the radio station, Pete makes him CDs of stuff he should play on his show, he hangs around the store so much that Hayley eventually starts putting him to work, pushing obsolete buttons in the booth so he’s out of the way but still feels like he’s contributing.

Pete shows him how he’s so good at sneaking stuff out of the cafeteria (“See, people are too blinded by my good looks and charm that they don’t notice the entire box of Froot Loops under my hoodie until it’s too late.” “I think they’re more blinded by that offensive shade of purple”) and they spend the rest of the day enjoying the froot of their labors as Pete halfheartedly tries to explain what he remembers from physics class.

They listen to records on the floor of Patrick's room until they both fall asleep at three in the morning. Pete wheedles his Skype name out of him and they talk on there, almost as often as they do in person (which is pretty much constantly). Pete starts permeating every inch of Patrick’s life, and the worst part is he doesn’t even notice it.

It reaches the point where even Andy notices, pointing it out when he calls that Friday.

"Do you even talk to anyone else while I'm gone?" he asks, voice a little distorted by the phone. Patrick can tell he's doing something else, far away enough that even speakerphone doesn't really help, as he adds, "Because all you talk about recently is Pete. You know, before I was kidding about you guys dating, but now I'm not so sure."

“Don’t be an idiot,” Patrick goes back to tuning his guitar, “Of course we aren’t. I’m pretty sure I’d know if we were.”

“Alright.” Even with bad reception, Patrick can hear the suspicion in his voice. “But that movies thing still sounds like a date.”

“They were marathoning all the Star Wars movies! There was free popcorn! You know you totally would’ve gone if you were here,” he argues.

“Yeah,” Andy counters calmly, “but you don’t even _like_ the prequels. I’m just saying,” he continues over Patrick’s noise of protest, “you must really like Pete if you’re willing to sit through that for him.”

Neither of them say anything for a while, but Patrick knows Andy can still hear him plucking his guitar strings.

“Patrick,” Andy says just as Patrick had almost forgotten his phone was still on, “Just don’t kid yourself into thinking this is nothing. I’ve known you forever, but I’ve known Pete longer, and I know that both of you have a lot invested in this. Don’t mess it up, okay?”

Patrick shrugs before he remembers Andy can’t see him. There’s a corner of his Cyndi Lauper poster that doesn’t quite stick down all the way, and suddenly it’s the most interesting thing in the world to him. How could he have not noticed that little thing out of place when he sees it practically every day?

“Alright, _mom_ ,” he knows Andy recognizes that tone of voice from all the other times he’s given Patrick “brotherly” advice and he pretends to hate it while secretly appreciating the concern, “I’ll see you when you get back in a couple days, alright?”

He hangs up on Andy’s responding laugh and goes back to his guitar. He reaches over for his phone to text Pete when he sees he’s got an email from YouTube. And when he opens it, he knows this is what he’s been waiting for.

///

“You play?” Patrick looks up from his reorganization of his records (by release date this time) to see Pete holding his guitar.

“A little,” he sits back on his heels and watches and Pete gently plucks some of the strings, “I’m not that good, though.”

“Yeah right,” Pete waves a hand dismissively, “You said the same thing about bowling and then you completely kicked my ass at it.”

“But you’re terrible,” Patrick points out, “It’s not that hard to be better than you.”

Pete mimes stabbing himself in the heart and dramatically declares, “You wound me, Patrick. To the quick!” His dramatic death continues in that thread for longer than it should for someone to die of a stab wound to the stomach, were that really the case. There’s a lot of groaning and bemoaning and falling over and whatnot. It’s embarrassing, really.

And, of course, Patrick can’t help the little laugh that escapes him as he leans up to take back the guitar before Pete has the chance to knock it off the bed.

“Play me something, then,” Pete leans forward so far _he_ almost falls off, head propped up in his hands and wearing an expression that Patrick can only assumes he thinks look endearing.

“No way,” he deflects both verbally and physically as Pete leans even closer to him. He braces his hands against Pete’s shoulders as he continues to grin stupidly at him and tilt himself almost off the bed. Patrick is a little confused, and a little hopeful, and is only just starting to smile back when Pete reaches out to steal the guitar out of his lap.

It doesn’t work, obviously, as Patrick’s arms are still in the way, but Pete gives it a valiant effort. Eventually he manages to wrestle it out of Patrick’s hands, but only because Patrick gives up to protect the strings from getting messed up.

“If you won’t play me something, then I’m just going to keep it until you do,” Pete keeps his arms crossed protectively over the neck and leans back until he’s pretty much out of reach. When Patrick rolls his eyes, he tries to convince himself it’s out of anything but fondness.

“Come on,” he stands up and offers a hand to Pete, still curled up on the other end of the bed, “We were gonna go to that pizza place today, right? It’s almost lunch, and I know you know that I didn’t have breakfast because you ate all my Lucky Charms; you totally owe me now.”

He takes back the guitar as Pete pouts at him but lets himself be pulled to his feet.

“I’m not paying,” he tries to insist as Patrick shepherds him out the door. Patrick just laughs in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this feel rushed? i think it kinda does. i dunno, i just have a bunch of separate little stories that take place in this time frame that i want to post later, they're just too long for this story.


	8. friend-iversaries are totally a thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you respect yourself, don't listen to 'the (after) life of the party' as you read this. fasten your seatbelts, kiddos, bc here we gOOOOooooooo.........

Patrick wakes up to the feeling of someone leaping onto the foot of his bed.

“What the f-?”

“Patrick!”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s way too early for Pete to sound that excited. Or be in his room at all. How did he-?

“He was waiting outside the door when I got here,” Andy’s voice explains, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say he slept out there. It’s great to be back, by the way, thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Patrick says as he tries to sit up. He’s stopped as Pete moves to sit on his chest, just as excited looking as he had sounded.

“Patrick, you’ll never guess what day it is.”

“The day you stop suffocating me to death?” Pete shuffles over a little so he can sit up with Pete basically in his lap. He’s not awake enough to be conscious of how he wraps his arms around Pete’s waist. Even if he was, he’d probably just explain it away as making sure Pete didn’t knock them both of the bed.

Pete kicks his feet a little and leans his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, saying, “Today’s the one month anniversary of the day we became friends.”

“That is disgustingly sappy,” Andy comments from the other side of the room where he’s unpacking his suitcase, “Also, are you _sure_ you’re not dating?”

“I’m working on it,” Pete quips, and Patrick snorts and dumps him on the ground so he can get out of bed.

“I have no doubt that you are,” Andy replies with a look that’s a little too knowing for Patrick’s comfort. He shakes his head and leaves the rest of his suitcase still packed, heading towards the door.

“I’m gonna go get breakfast,” he says as he pulls on his jacket again, “Please don’t do anything gross while I’m gone.”

Patrick is tired, but not enough to not roll his eyes at Andy’s retreating back.

“Good to have you back,” he calls after his friend before turning back to Pete sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Were you really already outside?” Patrick asks as he looks through his drawers to find a clean shirt, “It’s only six, how long have you been up?”

“Long enough,” Pete answers. He hands him the cardigan hanging on the foot of the bed before Patrick even realizes that’s what he’s looking for. He shrugs on the sweater and shrugs off the idea that maybe Pete knows him too well for only a month. It’s when he’s looking around for his glasses that he sees his guitar in the corner and remembers.

“Hey,” he says, and hopes it comes off more casual than it feels, “I have something I wanted to show you.”

Pete spins around on the floor to follow him with his eyes as Patrick picks up the guitar and pushes on his glasses. When Patrick sits on the bed and starts to tune it, he starts listening in honest. As oblivious as he acts, Pete’s more perceptive than most people give him credit for, and he can tell it’s more than what Patrick’s willing to tell him outright.

“So, uh,” Patrick plays a couple chords and studies the pattern of his bedspread, “You know how you’re always talking about how good I must be at this? Well, I guess since it’s our friend-anniversary...”

“Friend-iversary,” Pete corrects, but lets him continue.

“Right, friend-iversary,” Patrick allows, “and so I thought now was as good a time as ever to show you something I’ve been working on. I mean, if you wanted to…”

“Of course I do,” Pete is a lot quieter than he was when he came in, but no less enthusiastic, and that’s what finally convinces him to start playing. He forgets a couple of chords here and there, but he knows the words like the back of his hand and his voice gets more and more confident as he continues. By the end of the song, he’s not necessarily shouting or anything, but he’s not as shy as he’d started off.

“I'm a stitch away from making it and a scar away from falling apart. Blood cells pixelate and eyes dilate. Kiss away young thrills and kills on the mouths of all my friends. I’m a stitch away...”

His almost frantic strumming slows down and he awkwardly drops his hand from the strings as the last chord fades out.

“I mean,” he clears his throat at looks down at the still slightly vibrating wood, but he doesn’t really have much more than that to say. He can’t read the look on Pete’s face and all of a sudden it kind of scares him how that’s already out of the norm.

“I know it’s not that good, it’s still really rough,” he continues a little nervously when Pete doesn’t so much as blink, “but you’re always on me about singing more, and I just read this thing and it just really struck a chord with me, I guess-“

And then Pete’s bolting from the room, only slowing down a little to grab his sneakers and yank open the door hard enough that Patrick winces.

“Pete?” He can’t move, no matter how much he feels he ought to (he _needs_ to), glued to the bed by the sudden emptiness in the room. By the time he thinks to actually, you know, _follow Pete_ , it’s too late; he’s already out the door and sliding his way across the frozen quad.

Patrick doesn’t doubt that he’s forgotten to put his shoes on before getting outside, and he laughs a little at that before he remembers the way Pete’s face had changed right before he’d run out like he was fleeing the scene of a crime. Then all he can do is go back to his room and wonder why he’d looked so panicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i was typing this up originally, i had lost the piece of paper i had written this scene on, and i was so pissed bc honestly this is probably the best scene in the entire fic.
> 
> i guess it's all downhill from here, then.
> 
> jk.
> 
> (probably.)


	9. 'play it agains'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ashlee is in this SOLELY so i could make a joke about how i constantly got her confused with alicia simmons and its so. annoying. bc i know they're different people and yet years later im still here getting them confused like,,, i'm sorry.

After Pete runs out (“speed-walks,” the Pete-like voice in his head corrects, “I don’t _run_ , unless it’s for free food or something”), Patrick doesn’t see him for almost a month. Two weeks and a day, to be exact. It’s a little worrying, if he’s being honest.

Well, okay, it’s not like he thinks Pete just dropped off the face of the Earth or was erased from time or anything. He still sees him four times a week in Econ, and sometimes walking around the campus or wherever.

But that’s just it, Patrick only ever _sees_ him. The second class is over, Pete is gone. He crosses the street if they’re on so much as the same block. Pete stops sitting in the back of the room with him, only ever showing up at the last possible second so there’s no time for Patrick to corner him before he sits way in front with his friends who he doesn’t seem to talk too much to either. He can’t even say hello, let alone ask him what the hell is going on.

Because he still has no idea what happened. He’s gone over every single second of that day, over and over in his head until he’s pretty sure he could reenact the entire thing word for word. But he still can’t find a single thing.

He’s crossing the campus after dinner and resigned himself to waiting for them to accidentally bump into each other somewhere when he sees one of Pete’s friends break off from their group across the sidewalk and head over to him.

“Patrick, isn’t it?” She doesn’t give him time to answer before continuing, “Alright, what did you do to Pete?”

He doesn’t really remember her name, which gets him a little distracted and he forgets to answer. Is it Alicia? Ashley? Something with an “a”, that’s for sure. Maybe it’s spelled weird or something…

“I know something happened between you two,” she continues when he doesn’t seem to respond in any way, “and I don’t really know what it was, or even what you two are, but you better fix it.”

“I’m sorry?” he finally says, finally settling on Ashlee (he was pretty sure it was spelled weird).

She pushes a bit of hair out of her eyes and sighs, breath coming out in a cloud and obscuring her face for a second. Patrick’s pretty sure she and Pete dated at one time, and he could tell why. Not really his type, though.

“Basically,  he’s really messed up about whatever it was and he won’t talk to any of us,” she explains, gesturing to the group of slightly confused people behind her still, “I _know_ all he does anymore is lie in his room in the dark and occasionally go to class. I don’t think he’s been eating or anything like that, but he doesn’t even go to any of our poetry things anymore, which is frankly the only worrying part of this whole thing.”

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head a little at that.

“Besides that, this is pretty much par for the course with him. Pete lives in cycles, you know? Good days, bad days, worse days, better days. Days where he shuts himself up and shuts himself off and just shuts down, but out of all that, he’s never stopped doing poetry before.”

Ashlee looks like she’s about to go on a tirade, and now he _really_ knows why Pete liked her; Pete is drawn to passion like a moth to a bonfire (and God only knows why he’s still hanging around Patrick). But before she can get too into it, she sees the confused look on his face and softens.

“Look,” she puts a gloved hand on his shoulder, which wakes him out of his own head, “If there’s anyone he’ll talk to, it’s you. For whatever reason, he trust you more than probably anyone else, aside from his dog. Even me.”

He pretends he doesn’t see the small, sad smile on her face.

“Just, talk to him? Please?”

All Patrick can do is nod, but that seems to be enough to satisfy her.

“He can’t keep running forever,” she assures as she turns around to head back to the rest of her friends, “But you can’t either, you know.”

///

Patrick gets back to a blissfully empty dorm, Andy out at some hardcore concert with other friends, but all he can do is sit on his bed and stare blankly at the opposite wall.

The thing is, he _wants_ to take Ashlee’s advice, there’s not really anything he wants more than that. He just doesn’t know _how_ to do it.

It’s not his fault that Pete keeps running away the moment they’re within even fifty feet of each other. He knows it’s a little bit his fault, but he can’t just force Pete to sit still long enough to explain himself.  Patrick’s coming to learn that Pete is either clingy as hell or slippery as an eel, never anywhere in between.

They’re nearing a month of silence (“half the time you’ve been his friend,” the little voice in his head gets out before he shuts it up again) and he’s close to caving and just following Pete home after class when the phone on his nightstand vibrates violently, almost knocking his glasses onto the floor.

One little swipe of the screen and YouTube starts to open before he can actually read what the bubble said. His eyes are too bleary with sleep to pay much attention to any detail. Trying to ignore the squiggly feeling in his stomach that anticipated _something_ , Patrick sits up fully and pushes his glasses onto his face.

It loads enough to show the title and channel name, and that feeling in his stomach drops when he sees that of course it’s Pete.

Of course its Pete, who hasn’t uploaded anything since becoming his friend, who’s been not talking to him for as long as he had before, who wasn’t too busy avoiding him to upload a video of him sitting all alone in his stupid room.

A watered down version of irrational anger makes him want to throw the still buffering video across the room, but something keeps him waiting. He’s not sure if it’s just the need for closure or that he’s just desperate enough to hear Pete’s voice again, but he waits it through.

And _God_ , Pete looks awful.

The bags under his eyes are the heaviest Patrick’s ever seen them, even worse than the week he’d lost his dog and didn’t sleep at all until Hemmy came wandering back in one morning, and he’s pretty sure that’s the same shirt he’s seen Pete wearing the past three days. But it gets that much worse when he opens his mouth.

He gets now what Ashlee meant by him not having talked to anyone in about a month; his voice sounds hoarse in every possible way, like he actually hasn’t said a word since he’d shown up in Patrick’s dorm and wished him a happy one month friend-iversary.

“You were the song stuck in my head, every song that I’ve ever loved. Play it again and again and again and you can get what you want but it’s never enough.”

It’s different from his other videos (Patrick would know, he’s watched every single one of them), and not in any sort of way close to good.

For one, it’s not in front of a group of people. Pete seems to do his best in front of a crowd, feeding off their energy and giving back twice as much.

But even then, it’s still not the same as other poems he’s done by himself in his room. In those, at least he looked up at the camera every once in a while. But this time, he doesn’t ever look up from his lap, not even reading off a paper or anything, just unable to look the camera in the “eye”.

And when Patrick starts listening to what he’s actually saying, to the words falling from the screen’s poor imitation of Pete’s lips, and he notices familiar phrases like “multiply me times what you adore most” and “passports a blur, full of stamps from places I missed you in”, and he finally figures out consciously what he thinks he’s known the whole time.

By the end, he knows what he has to do, like it’s his godly mission or his fateful quest or some other variation of destiny. By the end, he’s already pulling on the familiar jacket and out the door, the last couple of words buzzing around and around in his head.

“I miss old friends and ‘play it agains’. Please send my love, to everyone above.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have yall seen that quote that's been going around tumblr recently? the old blog post that had lyrics to favorite record and w.a.m.s. and such? yeah, that fucks me up really good.
> 
> ([shh just go read it](https://web.archive.org/web/20081212112950/http://nohartandsole.blogspot.com/2008/08/to-you-unfinished-off-top-of-my-head.html))


	10. get things off the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the part where i was watching tfios. apologies for what is to come.
> 
> ALSO!! THE END IS NIGH!! I WILL MISS U ALL MY FRIENDS!! BUT I PROMISE I WILL B BACK AND TRASH-Y AS EVER W MORE STUPID BAND FIC!!

Joe’s on the night shift for once, thankfully, and he’s either too high or too tired to question why Patrick’s suddenly gained an interest in talking on radio. He leaves to find some donuts or something and Patrick pretty much flies into action.  
  
He’d already texted Pete on his way over, telling him to tune in to the radio as soon as he could, and even though he never responded or said anything otherwise, Patrick knows he’s already waiting.  
  
Pulling on the well-worn headset, he takes a breath and stares at the wall of CD’s in front of him. Now that he’s actually ready to do it, he has no idea what to play. It’s even harder to figure out what to say, but that’s what he’s got the music for; to say what he can’t find the words for.  
  
So when he looks up and sees the familiar black and white album spine, and he remembers that time when Pete had climbed in his window at two in the morning (“You know you could just go in the door like a normal person.” “Takes all the adventure out of it, all the danger and shit.” “We’re on the second floor. There’s a tree right outside.”) because he had found something funny on YouTube and decided to actually show it to him instead of just texting him the link like a normal person (“I wanted to be able to see your reaction,” he insisted, but the shadows under his eyes said something else) so he’d eventually convinced him to just lie on the floor with him and give in to the urge to be “indie trash” and listen to that album with him until they’d both finally, _finally_ fallen asleep.  
  
And that’s when he almost knocks over the mic in his haste to get to the little plastic case, and he shoves it into the CD player, and the whole world feels a little tilted, like it’s waiting for one final shove to get it back into place. The last song Joe had queued fades out and then it’s time for him to face the music, so to speak.  
  
“Um,” he coughs once before continuing, “I don’t think anyone else was listening before this, but if you were, hi. I’m not Joe, oddly enough,” he laughs a little and readjusts his hat so it doesn’t get in the way of the upside-down headphones, “This is Patrick, the one and only. And I just- Well, if you’re listening, and you know who you are, I don’t know how else to say it but this.  
  
He presses the button and [the song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i81AlARkMPk) starts playing as his last words come out as almost a sigh, a stupid weight on his chest being kicked off by the resounding click of the stereo system. All he can do is sit back in the squeaky rolling chair and listen as Alex Turner croons on about “cuddles in the kitchen, yeah, to get things off the ground.” He just waits for… well, for _something_.  
  
He doesn’t really know what he expected would happen, actually. It just seemed like everything was leading up to that moment and then… nothing. Maybe a tiny part of him expected Pete to rush in as soon as the song started and they’d embrace passionately or some shit, or that he’d be sad and disappointed and then he’d leave the booth and Pete would be waiting by the door and…  
  
But none of that really happens, so he waits out the end of the song and the next few until Joe comes back and takes over again. He asks why Patrick was so eager to finally get into the booth, but he can’t bring himself to do anything other than shrug as he pulls back on his jacket, Pete’s jacket, _the_ jacket, he doesn’t know anymore.  
  
All he knows is he doesn’t feel excited, or nervous, or disappointed, or anything else. He doesn’t really know how to feel anything other than expectant as he walks back out into the faint flurry outside.  
  
He almost doesn’t notice Pete leaning against the lamppost, almost walks straight past him as he focuses dejectedly on his shoes. He almost doesn’t see the tension lining his shoulders and the way he bounces on his toes and huffs out a nervous breath into the freezing air every once in a while. He almost doesn’t see Pete at all. Except, how could he not?  
  
“I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out before,” is all Pete can get out before Patrick practically launches himself at him, wrapping his arms as tightly around Pete’s shoulders as he can manage. He’s happy to just hear his voice again, and not through a speaker or headphone for once.  
  
He feels a little better about jumping him when Pete hugs him back just as tightly, if not even harder.  
  
“I’m kind of an idiot,” he mutters into the space between Pete’s neck and his collar, “In case you haven’t noticed by now.” When Pete laughs back, he can feel it like it’s his own laughter. And then he realizes he’s laughing too. Huh, would you look at that.  
  
“I can’t believe you dedicated a fucking Arctic Monkeys song to me,” Pete pulls back just enough that Patrick can see his stupid grin that he no doubt mirrors, “I told you, you’re too mainstream indie for me. We can never be friends now.”  
  
“Could we be boyfriends instead?” Patrick doesn’t know why he says it out loud, but it probably has something to do with the way Pete’s leaning their foreheads together and how he’s still grinning just as widely. The lamppost overhead makes his teeth look ridiculously white, and there’s a couple fluffy snowflakes already melting in his hair, and Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so stupidly beautiful.  
  
And when Pete nods, which isn’t the best when their heads are so close together, and smiles even wider if that’s possible, Patrick can’t really help himself from leaning in just the tiniest bit more until they’re finally kissing. And after that, he can’t really help himself from doing anything and everything else he needs to do to keep kissing him.  
  
Until one of Pete’s hands reaches up to cup the back of his neck and Patrick can’t help when he jumps at little at the sudden cold. Pete huffs out a laugh as Patrick scrunches up his neck and withdraws into his coat a little.  
  
“You fingers are freezing,” he says as Pete grabs his hand and laces their fingers together, “It’s not even that cold out, did you stick your hand in the lake or something?”  
  
It’s nice to finally be able to describe the look in his eyes as fondness and maybe even a little bit of love ( _don’t go there, Patrick, not quite yet_ ) and he gets a little caught up in that that he misses the first part of Pete’s sentence.  
  
“-Kind of waited out here for a while hoping for you to come by, I don’t know. And then when you did, I sort of… hid. And then hid inside the store to listen to the song and just- Jesus, Patrick.”  
  
“Wait,” Patrick waves his hand in a rewind motion, “Back it up. You were out here that whole time?”  
  
“Yeah, I mean, I came inside and listened to the radio for a while, but I left when Joe got there. Should he be allowed on air when he’s high?”  
  
Patrick just laughs and pulls Pete back in. He thinks up a million excuse he could use, sharing body heat and all that, until he remembers he doesn’t have to make up excuses anymore and laughs even more until they’re forced apart again.  
  
“I told you this jacket looked better on you,” Pete pushes back a strand of hair that Patrick hadn’t even noticed had fallen into his eyes. Patrick doesn’t so much fall in love as he does trip a little more.  
  
“It’s not especially warm, though,” he continues, tugging on the sleeves of Patrick’s sweatshirt where they stick out of the ends of the jacket sleeves.  
  
Patrick squints his eyes a little and tilts his head to the side as though he’s considering it. “True,” he concedes, “I suppose we could go inside somewhere. Like, I dunno, my room? Except Andy’s probably back already, so maybe not. Yours?”  
  
“Uh…” Pete quickly changes the subject, “Or we could convince Joe to leave early? You could probably bribe him with some kind of junk food.”  
  
Patrick doesn’t ask why, just accepts it and backs up into the door, unwilling to turn away from him for even a second. He’s still not entirely sure any of this is real, so he’s afraid to even blink. This causes him to hit the door painfully, and Pete to laugh his stupid horse laugh, and Patrick to hit him with the back of his hand, and both of them to laugh as he finally gets the door open behind his back.  
  
So when they go to kick out Joe and take over the booth and play as much awful and loud music as they want, it’s comforting to know that Pete’s as unwilling to let go of him as Patrick is to look away. And when Pete takes the Sharpie on the desk and starts writing a stream of words on Patrick’s arm, pushing up his sleeves when he needs more room, and Patrick thinks about all the songs he feels stupid enough to sing and mean this time, it makes everything make a lot more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (they're both secretly indie trash and u can quote me on that)


	11. coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short and sweet (just like them).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit. i accidentally deleted this chapter, lost my original file, and had to rewrite this all over again :0
> 
> im really sorry abt that, y'all, but if it makes it any better, this is a vast improvement on what the chapter was like before

Everything goes back to normal, in the relative sense.

Andy’s sense of humor is just as dry as the free coffee he gives them all every once in a while and he still teases them for acting ridiculously married.   
  
The radio station still gets reported, too often for Hayley’s taste, when Joe goes a bit too far on one of his tirades and the poor baby intern Brendon is powerless to stop him when he gets that worked up and passionate about something.   
  
Pete still eats all their cereal and leaves his stuff everywhere and shouts into a microphone more often than not, surrounded by stacks of textbooks and notebooks and so full of words he has to pour them out as much and as often as he could.  
  
Patrick is still reluctant to ever record anything, still has a million stupid hats lying around, still runs late to class and sleeps in almost every day and spends hours wasted away on YouTube before even trying to get out of bed.   
  
Except now he gets to do it with Pete watching over his shoulder. Pete stealing all his blankets in the morning. Pete paying for half the cereal. He gets to do it all the same. But with Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _c'est le ton qui fait la chanson_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> it is the tone that makes the song. it's the way you do it, not what you do.
> 
> and so we have done it. and i think we've done it well.
> 
> thank you for reading this, u rock.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest thing i've ever written and completed. pray 4 me.
> 
> tumblr @[findyourmonsters](http://photocomfort.co.vu)


End file.
